Died Last in My Dreams
by define-serenity
Summary: [Barry/Eddie] Thunder barrages like a bomb right above his head and he shoots up in bed, straight as a ruler, blinking as something warm and wet drips from his eyebrows. Had he been sleeping? Dreaming? Or had he still been awake? It's so hard to tell these days. (OUR ROAD IS LONG 'VERSE)


Barry/Eddie, pre-relationship. 3,184, pg-rated.

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 _ **Died Last Night in My Dreams**_

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Thunder barrages like a bomb right above his head and he shoots up in bed, straight as a ruler, blinking as something warm and wet drips from his eyebrows. Had he been sleeping? Dreaming? Or had he still been awake?

It's so hard to tell these days.

Another bang follows and his heart jumps, and his eyes start to sting as thick drops of sweat knit into the corners. He ignores the violent beat of his heart and stumbles to the bathroom, tripping over shoes and clothes and whatever else he'd neglected to clear off the floor of his firetrap of an apartment.

In the bathroom he feels around for the tap above the sink blindly, splashing an excessive amount of water in his face moments later. He tries to catch his breath but fails, not even after swallowing a few handfuls of freezing water—he draws in air openmouthed and hears himself wheezing, the oxygen trapped too high in his chest, too much of it to clear.

Barry falls to his knees, hanging onto the sink with both hands like an anchor meant to hold fast his meandering thoughts.

Rain clatters against the windows like bullets, a continued assault to his suddenly sensitive hearing, and he squeezes his eyes shut. He can't let go of the sink; if he sinks he'll drown, he'll be starved of oxygen, he'll—

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 _... breathe, Barry, ... breathe ..._

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"In through your nose," Eddie says, one hand drawing circles between his shoulders, while the other pushes firmly over his stomach. "Breathe from your diaphragm."

He's stuck on the floor in the precinct, knocked down there suddenly and unexpected, Eddie knelt beside him spewing nonsense.

It'd been creeping up on him all day, like tiny tripping pinpricks at the back of his neck every time someone shouted, "Lab rat!", "Need that report, kid," or "Allen!" and it'd exploded not five seconds ago after Joe slapped him on the back, and said, "See you at the crime scene."

His knees had trembled and he'd remained upright long enough to make it to the restrooms, where he'd barely managed to grab the sink before keeling over.

Hit by a full-fledged panic attack he'd hoped to avoid at work.

He sucks in a breath through his nose, releasing it unevenly, and _his chest aches_ , but Eddie's nonsense seems to pay off; the pressure over his lungs abates, slowly but surely lowering.

"There you go," Eddie says, gives his shoulder a good squeeze, and takes a respectful step back.

He catches sight of Eddie in the mirror as he splashes some water in his face, eyes averted, giving him all the space he needs.

They don't know each other outside of the few words they exchanged at the two crime scenes they've worked together, and that odd conversation spurned by his jealousy over Eddie's friendship with Iris. So why was he the first –and only one– to shoot into action to help him out?

"Thanks," he mutters, though he's not at all proud this had to happen again, especially at work—he'd had a few sleepless nights since waking up at S.T.A.R labs, increasingly regular in frequency, but he chalked that up to the stress of finding out the particle accelerator hadn't only made him inhumanly fast, but had also stolen nine months of his life.

That's enough to knock anyone off their game for a while.

"Don't mention it," Eddie says, remaining in his general vicinity, as if any moment he could freak out again.

Grateful as he feels he wishes Eddie would leave, so he can be alone with his thoughts and worries, and all his new secrets.

"If you ever need to talk—" comes Eddie's voice, and he closes his eyes.

No, he can't do that; he can't talk about the intricacies of his stress, the who and why and how—he doesn't know Eddie, and it might put him in danger. He promised Joe he wouldn't tell Iris, so he won't tell Joe's partner either.

If he talks he'll drown all the same, it'll kick start his panic,

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 _... he'll be starved of oxygen, he'll—_

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 _Just ride it out, Allen_ , he repeats like a mantra, leaning his forehead up against the cold enamel of the sink. He needs to acknowledge and accept that he's having a panic attack and there's little he can do, no way around it, only through.

Don't get up, don't move, just breathe.

Wait it out.

He breathes in through his nose, but any oxygen he draws in congests in his trachea and it cuts off his entire air supply—he grabs for his throat as if there's something to rip away, and next he's stumbling towards the bedroom on all fours.

If he gets to his cellphone he can call for help, he can tell Cisco or Caitlin or Dr Wells he's having another fainting spell with no need to go into specifics. Maybe the sound of their voice would be enough to pull him back.

Yes, his cellphone, on the nightstand.

But his head's faint even as he taps at the first number, his vision blurs, and any moment he expects to hear Caitlin's voice—

 _._

 _... Barry? Barry, are ..._

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"You okay?" Eddie asks, catching him outside of the restrooms, right on the heels of his second panic attack is as many weeks—did Eddie have some sort of sixth sense for it?

He pulls at the strap of his CSI kit, slung over his shoulder. "Yeah, I'm good," he says, and proceeds down the hallway, Eddie falling in step beside him.

He swallows hard and looks around, hoping to find someone who might save him from having this conversation.

It's not that he doesn't like Eddie or appreciates his concern, but he has too much on his mind to worry about the idea that Eddie worries about him in turn.

"You know," Eddie says, just as he catches sight of Iris and Joe in the bullpen. "No one's going to look at you any different if you take some time."

If Eddie had been the first to suggest it he might have mustered up a more respectful reaction than a sigh, but Dr Wells and Caitlin had said the same, backed up by Cisco and Joe once they learned about the changes his body was going through.

Even Iris, who believed him simply woken up from a coma, told him to take things slow. Did they have any idea how ridiculous that sounded since his abilities found him?

"I've lost enough time already," he says evenly, and pushes past Eddie, done with this conversation. What would he do on his own? Watch Netflix all day and eat?

There's _so much more_ to do now; his life has purpose and drive beyond that evidence board hidden in his lab; there's a clear path for him to take, and he won't let anyone tell him what he can and can't do.

"Barry"—Eddie grabs around his arm, and he's about ready to scream and shout, rip his arm free and give Eddie a piece of his mind, if it weren't for the "You went through something traumatic," that follows, and nearly brings him to his knees too.

"Don't underestimate that."

Few people currently in his life have acknowledged the severity of what he went through, himself most of all. He was struck by lightning _and survived_. He spent nine months unconscious in a hospital bed _and woke up_.

And nothing has been the same; not his relationship to Iris, because he shares her with Eddie now; not his relationship with Joe, because he knows his secret; and the team at S.T.A.R labs were all new, all unknown. There are metahumans wreaking havoc and despite his powers his dad's still in jail, and he's having panic attacks because of just how _useless_ it all is.

What's the point of being the fastest man alive if he's still powerless?

How is Eddie the one who sees all that?

"Look, I appreciate the concern—" he starts.

"This isn't the first time it's happened," Eddie cuts him off, but releases his arm before anyone can catch them arguing. "And if you're not careful it'll keep happening."

No, he thinks, he'll get the hang of this. He'll find a new balance between work and fighting metahumans, between Dr Wells helping him figure out his powers and working his mom's case, between letting go of his best friend a little bit and maybe finding a new friend in Eddie. Though, if Eddie keeps this up—

"Trust me," Eddie says. "I know."

The confession doesn't hit him nearly as hard as the conviction that burns behind Eddie's blue eyes, hot and broken, and not for the first time he's left to wonder why Eddie cares. They don't know each other, they're not friends, not yet anyway, and they've barely been colleagues since his transfer.

So why is Eddie so adamant about helping him?

"I don't want anyone to know," he says, his eyes not so subtly skipping to his unlikely family in the bullpen. "They've worried about me enough."

.

It was a half-truth to go with his half-measures, his few Google searches on how to deal with panic and anxiety, what to do in case of, and not Eddie nor his own logic had made him realize what really had to be done.

He had to unearth the root of his panic.

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He wakes up on his bedroom floor with a start, thunder rumbling in the distance, the rain reduced to soft pelleting drops against the window. He sits up with some difficulty, the room dark but for the light coming from his phone—at least that tells him he hasn't been out long. On the screen the first five digits of Caitlin's phone number are entered in the wrong order.

So much for calling for help.

Dragging a hand back and forth through his hair, sat on his dirty floor, he decides he can't keep doing this. He can't keep up this panic without finding a solution, especially not if he's going to pass out after each attack now—sometimes he thinks the only reason he got through the first few is because they were minor, and because of Eddie.

No. He can't do this by himself anymore.

It's nearing five in the morning and he hasn't slept in nearly three weeks; there's something wrong with him pills won't solve, and he's too afraid of bringing it up with Caitlin or Dr Wells—they rely on him to find and fight metahumans; what use would he be to them as a panicky mess?

He showers to get rid of his clammy skin, and eats one of the protein bars Cisco concocted in the lab to help keep up his energy.

He manages to draw that out for another hour before he can't stand to see the inside of his own apartment anymore, and he speeds to the East Coast and back for some coffees. Caffeine's probably the last thing he should be drinking, and he's not even sure he's ever seen Eddie drink coffee, but it's what he's got when he finally knocks on his door.

It's pride that's kept him away for this long, and what for? So he could spin in a haywire mess of hypoxia? So he could prove he could fix his own problems, the way the man in yellow had forced him to learn fourteen years ago? So he could somehow reason his jealousy over a gay man making friends with the girl he's had a crush on for just as long?

Ridiculous.

When has serving his pride ever gotten him anywhere but beat up and broken?

The lock snaps in the door, and he rights his shoulders.

"Barry?"

He brightens, or tries to, because it's been three weeks since he slept and it's a feat he's standing at all. He must look a mess. He wouldn't know; he hasn't checked the mirror in a long time.

"What are you doing here?"

It's barely six-thirty and Eddie's dressed to the nines; dress pants and a white tank, a white shirt loose around his shoulders, and for a moment or two, three, he forgets why he came here. Can he really dump all his problems on Eddie? The man's been living here for a year, and he doesn't know Eddie's story.

"I haven't been sleeping," he lets slip out nonetheless.

He has to stay the course; he came here for a reason. He's not backpedalling again.

"At all," he adds, unable to meet Eddie's eyes.

But Eddie gives way almost immediately, moving aside to let him in. "Come in."

To Eddie's credit, he's never mentioned his panic attacks in Joe's presence, even though his eyes followed him across the bullpen or through his lab at the slightest hint of distress in his countenance. He's felt Eddie's concern in every word and every time their eyes met, and it's sort of comforting in its pervasiveness, in the few moments it's not distressing.

Because if Eddie can read it so clearly, and not the people closest to him, that might mean Eddie's been through the same thing. Which is equal parts comforting and distressing in its own right.

He steps foot in a near empty apartment, though its emptiness isn't informed by any lack of furniture; there's a table and chairs in the dining room, a black couch in the living room, cupboards and side tables. All black and white.

And it's all so un-Eddie-like it throws him for a loop. It's cold, is what it is, and he's never thought of Eddie as anything of the sort. Eddie's the person people open up to, the new golden boy detective who's warm and kind, and little bit too competitive for his own good.

None of these rooms reflect Eddie's personality to way his tiny studio shows his messy fast-tracked life. The place needs some plants or posters on the wall, some pictures with smiling faces, not this emotionless minimalism.

"I got us some—coffee." He turns and offers Eddie a cup, still warm enough despite being rushed cross-country.

Eddie eyes both cups. "Caffeine's the last thing you should be drinking."

He huffs a laugh. "Doesn't seem to matter either way."

Surprisingly, he's comfortable in Eddie's company—the other man only ever demands the space he needs and nothing more, nothing beyond that, even if some of his concern has started to feel pushy. But he knows half of that is his stark denial that Eddie can see right through him.

He still wonders why that is.

Eddie gestures at the couch. "You want to talk?"

He nods, but can't bring himself to sit, his limbs back to their restless state. More than anything he wants to hightail it out of here, speed through the city with no other intent behind it than _running_ , feel the wind rush past him and his muscles ache—his speed chases away his worries more often than not.

But time has proven he can't live his life in the force of that speed.

Eddie sits down on the couch, elbows on his knees, eyes trained on him the way they are every time he walks into a room, every time he falters, every time the ground threatens to split beneath his feet and swallow him whole.

"I haven't—" He shakes his head; this is harder than he thought it would be. It's one thing to finally admit it to himself, another to confess to a stranger. He needs help he can't depend on himself to provide.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "I haven't been the same since the accident."

Eddie nods his understanding.

"I can't talk to Iris," he adds, however much it pains him to say it. "She sat by my side for nine months, I can't—"

He can't make his best friend relive all that horror; Iris had watched him die, she'd watched his heart stop over and over again, and all that's over now, it's in the past.

A past that haunts him all the same.

"You lost those nine months," Eddie says. "You can't ignore that."

He rubs at the back of his neck. "I've tried."

"And failed."

He catches Eddie's eyes, but falters before long, looking away from eyes that are too bright and see too much of him all at once—maybe the people in his life had decided to see what they wanted to see; their Barry back, their Barry _alive_ , but the only times he's felt alive these past few weeks have been on the run.

And he's been reckless and got himself hurt, incurred Caitlin's subsequent wrath, and he _hasn't gotten better_. He's not anyone's Barry anymore.

It's like that bolt of lightning chases him in his sleep and every waking moment of the day and means him greater harm still.

If he has any hope of defeating this thing, he needs Eddie's help.

He wanders towards a cupboard next to the flatscreen television, the record player on top about the only personal item in sight, a slew of records stacked on top.

"I never pegged you for a jazz fan," he says, leafing through the likes of John Coltrane and Keith Jarrett.

"They were my mother's."

He turns his head, but finds Eddie's eyes intent on him despite the sudden heavy question on his tongue.

"She died?"

"Cancer," Eddie says. "Last year."

He casts down his eyes, and rearranges the records back into the neat pile he'd found them in, as if he never touched them at all.

"I'm sorry," he says, to no one in particular.

Then, he walks over to the couch and sits down, a good ten inches separating him from Eddie. What is he doing here, really? How is Eddie going to help him when he loses it in the middle of the night, or feels panic creeping up his back during a briefing? What could Eddie do that won't tip off Joe or Iris immediately?

"I don't know what to do," he confesses. To no one in particular.

He needs to learn to talk about the intricacies of his stress, and the more he racks his brain the more he thinks the who and why and how don't matter—Dr Wells is doing everything he can to help, and the particle accelerator explosion wasn't anyone's fault—none of that makes up his panic or chases the oxygen from his lungs.

It's not his powers that have him terrified; it's the memory of the storm nine months ago, it's those nine months whisked away in the blink of an eye, nine months he'll never get back.

Nine months in which people died, and moved on, and Eddie and Iris became best friends. Nine months where he lay sleeping and no one knew if he'd come out of it.

At night, he dreams of closing his eyes and never waking up again.

"Don't worry," Eddie says, and slaps at his thigh. "I'll help you out."

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 **fin**

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End file.
